


Handmade Celebrity

by RemianDemian



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Chucklevoodoo, Mind Control, mindwashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemianDemian/pseuds/RemianDemian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He normally Kills his descendants. Gamzee isn't so lucky</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handmade Celebrity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Handmade Celebrity (video)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/130982) by Aquilacat. 



He used to just kill them. his descendants. They were nothing more than Threats, problems, inconveniences

Then he decided to keep this one. A Sopor-addled, weak child who had the most twisted and revolting versions of the teaching of the Messiahs in his mind.

But he had something behind the fog in his eyes and the Highblood had all the time in the world.

The first thing the Highblood had done was break his descendant's addiction. it had been a week of screaming and incoherent begging and threats and two days of that locking him in a room and just ignoring him completely.

He still wouldn't let the boy have a coon. wasn't risking letting that fucker near sopor.

Then came reteaching him the religion. Now that he could think properly it was harder He wasn't as agreeable to directing.

He learned to be. if only to avoid being beaten or starved every time he tried to fight back.

He learned what it really meant to serve the Messiahs. He made The Highblood smile the first time he asked a question that wasn't stupid or argumentative.

He made him grin wider the first time he bashed in some lowblood's head with a set of clubs. He watched his descendant all but crumble after that kill. He slapped him for that. he learned to not care about those base classes. that they were there to serve him in the only way they could-blood sacrifice.

He taught him how to fight. One time he got frustrated during a session and tried to just walk out, saying he was being pushed too hard. The Highblood had grabbed him and hung him by his wrists from the ceiling, just able to stand on tiptoe.

He came back and untied his sobbing, shaking mess of a descendant the next sundown. The boy never complained of too much being asked of him again. Well, not when learning to fight better.

He wouldn't use his name. The boy learned hearing his name spoken meant two things: either he had messed up badly or He was to be rewarded for something. it confused him, scared him. It made him hate his name, coming close to asking to not be called by it anymore. The Highblood knew. He'd grant the request. as soon as the boy was bold enough to say it.

He taught him what chucklevoodoo was. and how to use it. the punishments for disobedience changed. he never hit his descendant again. The boy tried to act out, he was crushed with fear and feeling of great horror and blackness. Before he'd risked beating and missed meals to get his way. He didn't take the risk of breaking his rules anymore.

And He had lots of rules.

Stand up straight. Eat only what The Highblood told he he could. Wear the uniform of the priests of the cult and nothing else. Don't talk back. Don't show Mercy. Don't ever frown. Don't even look at sopor, don't be a pushover, Don't let a lowblood talk to you before you talk to them. Wear your facepaint everyday and put it on well. Obey the Messiahs

Obey the Highblood.

The Highblood spent the better part of two sweeps molding that child into something perfect. strong and obedient and yet, completely unaware he was more obedient and subservient than any other subjuggulator was to their leader.

he had been six. he was eight sweeps old now.

He was allowed to leave now, to come and to go as he pleased.

But by now the boy always pleased to come back. He didn't know how to be anywhere else anymore. Everywhere outside this hive was dull, just a land full of sheep and he was a wolf, a bear, a coyote.

He was anything that killed. and he loved it.

He learned to paint with the colors. He learned the words of prayers to murmur while he painted the walls, his face, his clubs with the blood some poor fucker he was beating with them.

He used to have dreams about people he used to know. He couldn't remember their names anymore.

He tried to tell the Highblood of them once. He was pressed with voodoo, then had it explained to him. Others were weakness. people were weakness

Widespread Trust was for fools. He was better off just trusting only a few people. those people being the Messiahs, and The Highblood

He didn't trust himself. He knew that was stupid.

He found himself painting the walls one night in the Highblood's Throne room

"Does a motherfucker really want to put those colors there?" the Highblood asked from his throne.

"Yes." Gamzee said. He still hadn't found the words to change his name, to rip away that horrible sound given to him by a useless seagoat.

"Alright." The Highblood said nothing more. Giving the boy the feeling of being in control once in a while made him behave better.

Gamzee smirked and used a rust color to keep painting. it wasn't red enough. but no such color as bright red when it came to blood, well, none right now.

"Got things for you to do later." The Highblood told the boy.

"Fine, I'll do them." The Highblood nodded. People feared his descendant now He liked to see it. how they feared him not because of who had made him but in his own right. They didn't see they didn't know.

Gamzee didn't hardly realize except in faint feelings and half remembered dreams. In whifs of sopor when he went in his Ancestor's block

He'd become strong. But only through someone else's strength. And he didn't even see it. He didn't even see how everything he was was only what The Highblood decided he should be.

Gamzee liked to think he had resisted enough to stay himself. And yet even his own name made him cringe.

His was nothing more than a well known name and face now but one that was associated with death. and rightfully so. And he loved it.

He loved being exactly what the Higblood wanted. Which was fortunate, now wasn't it? Because that's he'd ever be. because there was nothing to him but The Highblood's work. Not much more than an elaborate doll.

He finished the painting on the wall. Looking at the pained faces he'd drawn...the horns looked familiar...

Didn't matter. he had shit to do.

He stood and grabbed his clubs and left, ignoring the Highblood in his thrown. Ignoring his grin.

Ignoring that he smiled the exact same way.


End file.
